Beyond Death
by MizJoely
Summary: They thought he was dead. And to be fair, he was. But death isn't always as permanent as people might hope it to be. A sequel to my story "Torn".
1. Prologue: Obsession Never Dies

**Warnings for mentions of violence, actual violence, gore, death and the like throughout this story.**

* * *

The series of operations meant to save his life had been successful. For the most part. Mycroft studied the man pacing in the room he'd been confined to since his release from hospital. It was his brother, and yet...it was not. There had been damage done. Of course the surgeon responsible had paid for whatever mistakes he'd made, mistakes that had resulted in...this.

As if sensing he was being watched, Sherlock paused in his endless pacing and stared up at the camera mounted above the securely locked door. Mycroft looked away, unable to stand the sight of his brother's eyes. No longer the clear blue-green that they'd once been, they were instead a cloudy grey, as if cataracts had filmed his vision, with permanent streaks of red in the sullen yellow that had once been pristine white sclera.

His eyes weren't the only physical changes that had resulted from his return to life after several hours of death: his skin was even paler than when he'd been living, with a grey tinge to it; the bones in his left hand had never reset properly, leaving it a gnarled claw; and there was a series of nearly invisible scars along his hairline, where his scalp had been peeled away during the delicate surgical procedure that had reactivated his central nervous system. But it was his mental state that was the most disturbing part of his transformation from corpse to living man. Sherlock had always been cold, reserved - much like Mycroft, point of fact - but now his gaze burned with an intensity that was almost alien. There was madness there, where before had only been pure, icy logic and intensity of purpose. A purpose many would call evil, but with no signs of the insanity that lurked there now.

"Where is she, Mykie?" Sherlock asked, his voice rougher and far more gravelly than it had been in his previous life. There had been permanent damage to his vocal cords during the days spent in cryonic suspension immediately after Mycroft had found him bled out on the floor of Professor Smythe's laboratory. "You promised you'd find Molly Hooper and bring her to me! Where is she?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. His brother's obsession with the Hooper woman only worsened with every day that passed. "I, I _want_ her, Mykie," Sherlock whined. "I _need_ her. Bring her to me NOW!" He screamed the last word, spittle flying from his lips as he clenched his fists and raised them above his head.

Mycroft watched unflinchingly as Sherlock worked himself into a rage, pounding his fists against the walls until they were bruised and bloodied while he screamed himself hoarse. After approximately thirty seconds of this display, the elder Holmes pressed a button, releasing the aerosol sedative that would send him into swift unconsciousness, the only way to free him from the grip of one of his maniacal rages.

He turned away from the monitor as Sherlock collapsed to the floor and activated a second one, entering a complex string of numbers known only to himself. He hadn't saved his brother out of _sentiment_ ; anyone who believed him capable of such a soft emotion didn't know the real Mycroft Holmes. And if any such hypothetical person required proof of his cold-hearted pragmatism, well, the fate of the other Holmes brother, Sherrinford, would surely be enough to disabuse them of their foolish notion. And quite possibly send them screaming into madness as seemingly incurable as that which currently afflicted the youngest of the three Holmes siblings.

No, he'd had his brother brought back to life purely to serve as a guinea pig, to allow the delicate series of surgeries to be perfected on someone less important to Mycroft's future than his actual target: Dr. Harrison Smythe. The man who'd created the only working interdimensional transportation device known to science in any nation - and he'd made damned sure of that.

Oh, he had plans for Smythe and his singular machine. He'd been working feverishly on reproducing it from scratch ever since Mycroft had had him brought back to life, his terror at the possibility of dying again being all the incentive needed to ensure his cooperation. Mycroft watched him for a few minutes, then shut down the feed, complacently certain that things were going according to plan.

He continued to believe that right up until the moment he discovered that Smythe had secretly altered the specifications of his device so that it worked as a one-way portal only, designed to self-destruct after a single use - and that Sherlock had escaped, murdered Smythe (permanently, as it would turn out), and used the device to transport himself to another universe.

* * *

 _A/N: Hang onto your hats, folks, this is going to be a bumpy and (hopefully) scary ride._


	2. The Object of His 'Devotion'

Molly sighed in her sleep, cuddling closer to Sherlock as she turned on her side. He smiled in the darkness of their room, still astonished and humbled that she'd chosen to live her life with him after all that had happened to her.

Had it truly only been a year since she'd been taken from them, whisked off to an alternate reality where she'd been kept as a virtual slave by his evil alter-ego? The smile vanished from his lips as he remembered that terrible time and all the things that she'd survived.

 _Survived_ was the key word, he reminded himself as guilt threatened once again to overwhelm him. Molly had not only survived, but she'd triumphed over Holmes in the end. The image of her breaking that evil bastard's hand and then shooting him was one Sherlock would never delete; it gave him far too much enjoyment, although he was careful never to tell her that. She considered it a sign of how low she'd sunk while living in that horrible place, where he saw it only as a sign that she'd been bent but never broken by his other self's depredations.

"You're thinking too loudly," she murmured against the bare skin of his chest. "Stop it."

He grinned and kissed the top of her head. "That's my line."

"Not when you're the one doing the loud thinking," she countered. Yawning and stretching, she tilted her head so they were face to face. "What's wrong? The case?"

"Nothing's wrong," he denied, a little too quickly.

"Liar," Molly said, struggling out of his hold and sitting up. Leaning over to the bedside table, she clicked on the small lamp that was sat between her mobile and its charger, a half-eaten packet of crisps, and the notepad and pencil she always kept on hand. "Mary Watson's got nothing on me when it comes to sussing out your fibs, Sherlock, and you know it." Her teasing expression softened, and she reached up to run her fingers gently over his curls. "Please tell me what's wrong."

"I don't deserve you," he blurted out, quite contrary to what he'd intended to say. Not that it wasn't true; he absolutely did not deserve her, but he knew she hated it when he said things like that and had some superficial platitude to offer up. But instead, as always around her, the truth just sort of...happened.

Molly huffed out an annoyed breath and sat up. "Sherlock, we've been over this and over this! You have to stop beating yourself up over what happened to me and how you behaved toward me before that! We've both changed and grown and even if it took something horrible for us to get to this point, to be together...then it was...no, I can't say it was worth it," she interrupted herself with a shudder, "but we're past it now. At least, I thought we were."

Sherlock could have literally beaten himself up for causing that little hitch in her voice, the one that spoke of continued self-doubt and insecurity...or was he merely projecting his own feelings onto her? Molly loved him, and he felt just as strongly for her even if he couldn't quite manage to speak the words, and wasn't that all that mattered, in the end? "You're right," he said, gently wrapping her in his arms and waiting for her to relax before pulling her down on top of him. "I am sorry. Forgive me."

"Always," she murmured, tilting her head up for a kiss. "Always."

 _Interlude_

 _He glowers at the screen, fury at the idyllic view of the two lovers settling like a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. She's_ his _, she's been his ever since being literally dropped into his life by Smythe's transporter. His sniveling other self had never wanted her before then so why should he have her now?_

" _No," he rumbles, the guttural noise briefly covering the sounds being made by the couple on the screen. His hands clench into fists, but he forces down the rage, the desire to smash the computer monitor and destroy the flat he's commandeered. Even if no one is waiting to rush in and sedate him as they would be back in his own universe, someone might hear the noise and complain and then he'll be forced to find a new hiding place. No, not a hiding place; he's Sherlock Vernet Holmes, dammit, he doesn't_ hide _, not in any universe. This is just his temporary observation post, whose inconvenient occupant currently lay bundled up in a rug awaiting disposal._

 _He smirks over at the unseeing eyes of the man he'd taken such savage joy in tearing to pieces only a few short hours ago. "Sorry, Tom Bradley of Hampton Street, but your superior technology was far too useful to pass up. Nothing personal; you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time." He cackles gleefully, then forces himself to stop, slapping a hand over his face and taking several deep breaths. He has to keep the madness his brother had brought on him at bay, keep his wits about him until he accomplishes what he's crossed universes to do._

 _Ah yes, his dear, dear brother. He supposes he should be grateful Mycroft found a way to bring him back to life but gratitude has always been alien to him. He doesn't even feel gratitude toward the Mycroft of_ this _universe, whose paranoia regarding his younger brother seems to rival even that of his own brother. He wonders if this Sherlock knows that Mykie has cameras inside every room of his flat, bed and bath included, then dismisses it. If he did, surely he'd have removed them by now, unless his other self isn't quite so noble and selfless as Molly seems to believe. What if he likes the idea of being watched by his own brother, what if he gets off on that sort of thing?_

 _He enjoys that possibility for about five seconds, then shakes his head and scoffs. No, this weaker version of himself is too soft, too boring to have a kink that interesting in his psyche. It's obvious by the way he lets Molly dictate their actions in bed. The most he would probably do if he_ did _discover that he and his paramour were being watched would be to demand that his brother stop._

 _He spares a further moment to fantasize about how HE would handle it: cornering Mycroft in his office, squeezing the life out of him the way he wishes he'd been able to do before leaving his own universe behind. He can almost feel the flesh giving beneath his fingers, the thorax crushing, hear the gurgles and whimpers, see the way Mycroft's face purples as he slowly asphyxiates...ah, what a lovely moment that would be. Perhaps he'll kill this world's Mycroft once he's disposed of his doppelganger and reclaimed Molly Hooper, rid himself of his brother by proxy…_

 _The pleasant thoughts and images temporarily smother the smouldering rage that churns in his gut at the sounds and images coming from the screen in front of him. However, he grinds his teeth as he opens his eyes and sees Molly \straddling his doppelganger, her sweet body rising and falling in time with their mingled gasps and grunts and disgustingly happy little sighs of pleasure. Fine, he thinks, focusing on Molly's arse and the curve of her spine. Let them enjoy their time together._

 _If he has anything to say about it - and he does - it'll be their last._


	3. Somebody's Watching Me

_A/N: Warnings for some super creepy M rated voyeurism in this chapter. Holmes wasn't exactly a nice guy BEFORE he died..._

* * *

Molly frowned and glanced over her shoulder. She had the unpleasant sensation of being watched, but there was no one there. No one but her and Mr. Robbie Andrews, age forty-seven, dead from possible complications from a surgical procedure just this morning. Not at St. Bart's but the Royal...

There it was, that crawling sensation between her shoulder blades. Molly shuddered and looked around again, her gaze moving up to the observation window. Nope, no one there. "Hello?" she called out, feeling unutterably foolish as she did so. _Knowing_ that she was alone, that she'd have heard anyone coming through the doors, no matter how quiet they might try to be. Not even Sherlock could sneak up on her in here, and he'd actively tried more than once, even going so far as to oil the door hinges once.

She grinned at that memory; for some reason the oiling only made the door noisier, and neither Sherlock nor anyone from maintenance had ever been able to figure out why. She'd have been able to hear unless she was using the bone saw or some other equally noisy implement, and all she'd done so far was make the lateral chest incision.

A slight whirring sound caught her attention, and she automatically looked around to see what it was. The blink of a light from the corner of her eye, and aha! Mystery solved. She tilted her head back to get a better look at the corner-mounted CCTV camera that was the source of both the noise and the light. "Mycroft," she muttered to herself in exasperation. Only Sherlock's paranoid older brother would feel the need to keep such close tabs on her. Then again, considering how she'd been forcibly abducted from under his brother's very nose by a force literally from outside the universe, she supposed she could forgive him this time.

However, she decided as she went back to the autopsy she was supposed to be performing, she and Sherlock were _definitely_ going to have words about this. Mycroft was supposed to be letting the two of them get on with their lives, not hovering protectively over their every move. Poor Doctor Smythe was dead, and the Greg Lestrade of that universe had promised to destroy his machinery, and Jamie Moriarty had promised to make sure that nothing could be retrieved from the computer memories. Of course that didn't mean someone on that world wasn't trying to reproduce the technology, but she fervently hoped that Smythe's invention was as irreplaceable as he'd seemed to believe it to be.

"He's as dead as you are, Mr. Andrews," she said to the corpse as she prepared to start her Y-incision again. "And one thing that's true in both our universes is that once you're dead, you're dead."

So why did she still feel the cold breath of foreboding prickling on the back of her neck?

 _Interlude_

 _He watches, entranced, as she visibly shrugs off her unease and returns to the autopsy she's performing. He remembers the first time he watched her, how fascinated he'd been by the conciseness of her movements, by how precise and exacting she'd been, and he's thrilled to see that her technique has only improved over time. Her lips move silently as she dictates her findings into the overhead recording device, and his fascination becomes something more._

 _Just as it always does when it comes to Molly Hooper._

 _He's aroused, incredibly aroused by the sight of her at work, and his cock twitches in his trousers as he continues to watch her, drinking in every detail. When she pauses to collect her thoughts, the sight of her little pink tongue darting out to touch her upper lip nearly undoes him right then and there. He groans, then reaches down, never taking his eyes away from the computer screen as he undoes his trousers. He's mumbling to himself but doesn't realize it as he lifts his hips and slips the dark fabric down to his thighs. He grips himself, sliding his hand over his hard cock, still mumbling, speaking to her as if she can hear him._

" _That's it, Molly, yes, cut it slower, that's perfect, your technique is flawless, show me again, make a new incision - ahh, yes! Exactly, perfect, my perfect Molly. My Molly, mine, you'll be mine again, not his, you'll get to cut into his body after I've broken his neck and I'll watch, oh yes, I'll watch your lovely, clever little hands as you make a Y-incision in his chest. You'll cry, I know you'll cry but I'll kiss those tears away, I've missed their taste on my tongue just as I've missed the taste of your sweet cunt. Do you miss me, Molly love? Do you?"_

 _With every word his strokes become harder, more desperate, until he gives a strangled moan and feels the hot gush of cum over his fingers, spurting onto his abdomen. He pants and stares and continues to grip himself long after he's gone soft in his hand, too absorbed in Molly to notice himself. It's only after she's finished the autopsy and starts sewing up the body that he comes back to himself, notices with a moue of distaste the sticky mess he's made of himself. Muttering a curse he gropes for a tissue, a napkin, something easily at hand, but finds nothing. With a snarl of rage he rises to his feet and shambles off to the bathroom to clean himself up._

 _He can't go to her like this, after all - and go to her he will, this very night. He's spent enough time lurking and watching; now it's time to take action, to reclaim her for his own...and to put an end to his miserable excuse for a doppelgänger._

 _Sherlock Holmes is going to die, and Molly Hooper is going to be given the honor of watching._

 **oOo**

"Mycroft, whatever it is can wait, I'm sure," Sherlock said as he heard his elder brother enter the flat. How annoying of him to visit when Molly wasn't there to take up the conversational slack the way she usually did. He fiddled with the knob of the microscope and pretended to be utterly absorbed by the mold spores he was examining. "Just take Mummy and Dad to whatever inane musical they want, and I promise Molly and I will go next time. Or the time after that, if we're busy…"

"Someone's spliced into the CCTV feed at St. Bart's."

Mycroft's words, however quietly spoken, were more than enough to capture Sherlock's attention. He stood up and stalked into the sitting room, where his elder brother had taken a seat in the exact center of the sofa. "And you're here to tell me you have that 'someone' in custody?" he asked, his voice dangerously calm.

"Not as of yet." Mycroft's expression barely changed, but Sherlock easily read his chagrin at the fact that they mystery voyeur had managed - thus far - to elude him.

"Who do you have working on it? And don't try to put me off with something vague, like 'top men'," Sherlock added with a sneer. "Have you put Wiggins on it? If not, then do so. He's miles better than any of your 'top men' now that he's cleaned up." While he spoke his fingers were moving nimbly over the face of his mobile, messaging Molly, alerting her to the fact that he would be away from London for several hours, already anticipating Mycroft's next words.

"Wiggins has indeed been put on the job," Mycroft replied calmly, glancing at his watch. "In fact, if you'd care to join me, I'll drop you off at the Think Tank so you can breathe over his shoulder and offer withering commentary on his team's lack of progress."

When he looked back up, Sherlock was already on his way out the door, his Belstaff swinging jauntily in his wake. With an inward sigh and 'give me strength' gaze heavenward, Mycroft rose to his feet and strolled after him.

On the way out the door he caught the eye of the unobtrusive guard he'd set up to watch over 221B in anticipation of his brother's imminent departure. The agent gave a brief nod, Mycroft nodded back, then climbed into the car where Sherlock was impatiently waiting.

As Mycroft settled in beside him, Sherlock glanced up from his mobile before returning to his texting. "Molly doesn't know about the security detail you've put in place, if one can refer to a single plainclothes idiot as a 'detail'."

"Hendricks will be more than adequate until we've ascertained the potential threat level," Mycroft replied, refusing to address the implied criticism. "You haven't informed Molly of the situation, which tells me you're not entirely certain there's any real threat to her. It could simply be a prank or the work of hackers who want to watch an autopsy, or…"

"Or four other non-life-threatening scenarios," Sherlock cut in impatiently. "Or it could be something dangerous. An incursion from the other universe. Moriarty. Are you sure he's still busy in eastern Europe, or has he slunk back into London when you weren't looking?"

"This isn't Moriarty, he would never be sloppy enough to get caught spying on your girlfriend," Mycroft replied, unruffled as ever at Sherlock's tone. The two of them snarked at one another as a matter of course, but in this case he knew very well how concerned his younger brother was for Molly's safety, moreso about the former possibility he'd just voiced than the latter. "Will John Watson be able to leave the clinic in time to escort her home?"

"Not John, Mary," Sherlock corrected him absently.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Interesting choice of bodyguards."

"I am well aware of the fact that you've already familiarized yourself with Mary's previous life," Sherlock snapped, finally looking up at his brother and slapping the phone into his coat pocket. "However, it's less likely that whoever is spying on Molly knows about it; if she shows up to take Molly home it's just two girlfriends spending time together. Much less suspicious than if John or Lestrade were to do the same."

"Indeed."

The two brothers rode in silence for the remainder of the trip. When they arrived, Sherlock hopped out before the car had fully stopped, tapping his foot impatiently as Mycroft disembarked at a more decorous pace. He understood his brother's concerns, but he had an image to maintain and sprinting into a government facility in a panic was not part of that image.

After making sure his brother was settled into the office Wiggins shared with an array of computers and monitors (and a truly astonishing collection of candy bars), Mycroft made his excuses and left them to it. If it was anything of concern he would be informed in due course, but his suspicion was that it would turn out to be the corpse Molly was autopsying that was of interest, rather than herself.

Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft rarely missed anything.

Unfortunately for all of them, this was one of those times.


	4. Deception

_A/N: Surprise, I'm back! Yes it's been over year but I finally got past my massive writer's block and got not only this new chapter finished, but a about a page and a half of the next chapter as well. For those who might be a bit hazy about the plot after all this time, here's a brief summary:_

 _In this sequel to Torn, the evil version of Sherlock Holmes was brought back to life due to experimental science by his brother Mycroft. Unfortunately the procedure had a few side effects: Sherlock came back, but with a Frankensteinen physique (grayish skin tone, scarring, damage to his vocal chords, etc.) and even more disturbing, his obsession with Molly Hooper has become a mania._

 _Mycroft brought Sherlock back no_ _t because he missed his baby brother, but because he wanted to test the procedure before bringing back Smythe, the genius who had created the means to extract and return people between universes. Smythe was forced to recreate his work, but managed to slip in one fatal flaw: it would work strictly on a one-way basis. The back-from-the-dead Sherlock Holmes managed to escape his brother's custody, kill Smythe, stole and used the device, and is now in Molly Hooper's universe, plotting to get her back under his control - and kill his hated other self._

* * *

Molly waved good-bye to Mary from the door. It had been nice to get together for a bit of a chin-wag after work, but she knew it had been more than that. Sherlock had obviously put her up to it; Molly had figured that much out long before Mary's oh-so-casual offer to split a cab with her. But she'd kept her suspicions to herself and wore a cheerful face until finally able to close the door to 221B behind her. Whatever was going on, Mary would never tell so she would have to wait and ask Sherlock, whenever he got home from whatever out-of-town adventure he'd hared off to.

She chatted for a few minutes with Mrs Hudson, declined a cup of tea, and headed upstairs. It had been a busy day, three autopsies and endless piles of paperwork among other things. She rubbed absently at her lower back, which had been aching all day, and promised herself a nice long hot shower after dinner.

Or maybe before dinner, she thought, the idea of food making her a bit queasy. "Shouldn't have eaten so many chips," she grumbled to herself as she reached the landing and opened the door.

Sherlock used to keep it unlocked and ajar, once upon a time, but no longer. Not since she'd moved in. Yes, the last time she'd been abducted from his flat it had been through rather fantastical means, but as Sherlock rightly pointed out, there was no sense in taking chances. He was still so overprotective of her, which she generally found sweet, but sometimes she just wanted to - not slap him, but shake him, maybe? Remind him that she was hardly a wilting flower!

At least his paranoia was mainly due to the continued existence of this universe's Jim Moriarty. Someday he'd have to be dealt with, but Molly was confident she and Sherlock (and John and the surprising ex-spy Mary Morstan!) could handle whatever he threw at them.

As long as it didn't involve inter-dimensional travel, that is.

She wrinkled her nose as she finished kicking off her shoes and shucking her coat. There was a very faint smell, as of decomposing flesh, coming from the general direction of the kitchen. With a groan of annoyance, she dumped her handbag on the sofa and went to see what nasty experiment Sherlock was working on now. Not that she generally objected to such things, but he was actually very considerate about warning her in advance.

She frowned as she entered the kitchen and looked around. The table was filled with the usual clutter, but nothing that might be causing the smell. She opened the fridge - nope, no heads, no bags of toes...Sniffing again, she thought the smell seemed to be coming from the hall. Following her nose, she started down the narrow passage.

She paused with one hand on the bathroom door, where the smell seemed to be concentrated; had that been a snore? She tip-toed to the bedroom to see if her suspicions were right.

Yep, there he was; opening the door, she beheld Sherlock curled up in bed, barely visible in the darkened room. He'd pulled the curtains and left off the lights, and she hoped he wasn't ill or injured. As she got closer, she realized that at least some of the smell was coming from him. Her nose wrinkled in disgust; what _had_ he gotten himself into today? She thought he was supposed to be reviewing something with Mycroft, not chasing through the back alleys of London

"Sherlock, are you all right?" she asked as she sat on the edge of the bed. If he was asleep she wouldn't wake him even if she hoovered in the same room, but if he was awake she was going to make him get into the shower and change the bedding.

She assumed he'd somehow ended up in a rubbish tip and had left his clothes in the bathroom before crawling into bed. Again, she hoped it was simply post-case exhaustion and not something more serious, but she wouldn't know until he let her examine him.

With that in mind she tugged gently at the blanket that covered him to his chin. "Sherlock," she coaxed, "please let me take a look. Are you hurt? Do you feel ill?"

As she placed her hand on his cheek, he startled her by turning swiftly on his back, flinging the covers away and grasping her by the wrist. Surging up, he tugged her so that she half-fell atop him, his left arm locking around her waist, and attacked her mouth with a greedy, demanding kiss.

Molly melted into his embrace for a moment, but stiffened as he rolled them so that she was beneath him, covered by his body, nearly choking on the smell he was giving off and feeling a hint of panic at being thus trapped. Not that Sherlock would ever trap her, ridiculous thought! He knew how she felt about such things; surely he would come fully awake and realize what he was doing. "Sherlock," she gasped out when the assault on her mouth had ceased, his lips now working at her throat. She squirmed. "Let me up, you ninny!"

Unbelievably, he ignored her demand, instead pressing himself more firmly against her - and not incidentally letting her feel exactly how amorous he was feeling. He was still fully clothed, at least wearing a shirt and trousers if not the usual impeccable suit jacket and Belstaff, but the hard length grinding against her was unmistakable. "Sherlock," she said, louder this time, positive he must still be mostly asleep - or possibly under the influence of something? He'd been drugged by adversaries before, she remembered with a rush of panic; what if this was another of those times?

It was the only explanation she could think of, since Sherlock in his right mind would never treat her like this - ignoring her demands that he let her go, sucking hard at her neck, jamming his thigh between hers and grinding himself against her like some spotty teen getting a leg over for the first time.

She began to struggle in earnest when he grabbed her breast, squirming his hand beneath her shirt and bra and rubbing his thumb against the brand she still bore. "SVH," he said, his voice a guttural growl. It almost sounded - gloating? No, that couldn't be right… "So glad you kept my mark, Molly," he said, pulling his head up and meeting her gaze. "It's good to know that you still remember who you belong to."

Molly froze, her heart pounding a terrified tattoo in her breast. No, it couldn't be - it was impossible - he was dead - !

"Mm, yes, my little pet has figured it out," he said, still in those broken, gravelly tones. "You're right, I was dead, but my _delightful_ brother figured out a way to bring me back, so here I am, ready to reclaim what's mine, take over this soft, pathetic world of yours and show them just how fucking easy they've had it up till now." He chuckles, a blood-freezing sound like broken glass in a blender. "The fool who was supposed to watching the flat found that out, as did the computer hacker whose equipment I used to keep track of you."

Dread filled Molly's heart as she instinctively understood what the smell in the bathroom must be. Panic tried its best to overcome her, but she wrestled it grimly into submission, determined not to allow this nightmare of a situation to weaken her. No, she had to be strong, to draw on the strength she'd relied on during her hellish year under this man's brutal thumb.

So she did the last thing he would expect of her: she relaxed beneath him, stopped struggling, slowed her breathing and dropped her gaze submissively. "This world won't know what hit it," she said, her voice automatically going soft and breathy. She hated herself right now but would do what she had to survive.

And just as soon as she found the opportunity, she would kill him again - and by _God_ she'd make sure he stayed dead this time, even if she had to set the entire building on fire, cremate him down to _ashes_ , in order to do so. Keeping that firmly in mind, she pulled herself up and kissed him with all the false passion she could muster.

As she'd hoped, surprise slackened his tight grip. Continuing the ruse, she snaked her right hand across his chest, making it seem for all the world like a sensual stroke, and carefully hooked her left leg behind his thigh. To distract him from even possibly anticipating what she was about to do, she tilted her head back submissively, baring her throat to him in silent offering. He'd loved marking her, to show both the world and herself who she belonged to, and the act of showing him her throat had always pleased him.

Her pulse jumping in her throat, she finished the hated ritual by closing her eyes and uttering a trembling, "Please, Sherlock. Don't hurt me."

As he lowered his mouth her exposed throat, a triumphant chuckle escaping his lips, she made her move, praying she could execute it as Mary had taught her during one of their recent self-defense sessions. She yanked her leg up and into his knee, pulling him off balance, using all of her strength to thrust her hips up into his and shove at his chest with her arm to heft him off of her towards the edge of the bed.

It worked - barely. They were still a tangle of limbs, but at least he was off her and she could make to scramble away, heart racing and head far too light. He reached for her and in a panic she kicked furiously, sending him sliding off the bed amongst the sheets. Finally free, she leaped from the bed without looking, crashing into the bedside table and knocking it to the floor.

She'd almost reached the bedroom door when he reached her, grabbing her by her pony-tail and yanking her almost off her feet. "Mm, yes, you know I love it when you fight me," he said with a dark, broken chuckle as he hauled her tightly against his body.

Tears of pain and rage filled her eyes but she made no sound as she fought to escape his grasp. As she tugged at the arm wrapped around her waist, she noted that the hand she'd broken during their last encounter ( _God, she'd believed she'd never see him again after that except in her nightmares_ ) was a gnarled, twisted wreck. Without hesitation she grabbed it in both hands and squeezed. Hard.

With a veritable howl of anguish he jerked away from her, clutching his injured - reinjured - member to his chest. His eyes blazed with fury and there were flecks of foam along the edges of his lips as he cursed her in the foulest language possible. Molly didn't wait around to hear more; she pelted out of the bedroom, making for the half-opened door with him hard on her heels when two things happened simultaneously: Holmes grabbed her by the arm, swinging her around so that she slammed into the wall...and Mrs Hudson, screeching like a banshee, hurtled through the door swinging a cast-iron frying pan like a cricket back – aiming right for Holmes' head.

* * *

 _A/N: Many many thanks to asteraceaeblue for helping me with the crucial part where Molly escapes Holmes' in the bedroom. Another shout-out to my good buddy nocturnias (sherlolly on tumblr) for helping me Word when my brain refused to cooperate. And a doubles shout-out to all my patient readers - I promise the next chapter won't be so long in coming!_


	5. In the Aftermath of Chaos

_A/N: Look at that, it didn't take another year to update this story, woot! I have decided to leave the plot summary since this story has been taking so long. Just skip past the line if you remember what's already happened. Thank you for reading, for following, and most of all, for reviewing. Your words mean so much to me!_

 _In this sequel to Torn, the evil version of Sherlock Holmes was brought back to life due to experimental science by his brother Mycroft. Unfortunately the procedure had a few side effects: Sherlock came back, but with a Frankensteinen physique (grayish skin tone, scarring, damage to his vocal chords, etc.) and even more disturbing, his obsession with Molly Hooper has become a mania._

 _Mycroft brought Sherlock back no_ _t because he missed his baby brother, but because he wanted to test the procedure before bringing back Smythe, the genius who had created the means to extract and return people between universes. Smythe was forced to recreate his work, but managed to slip in one fatal flaw: it would work strictly on a one-way basis. The back-from-the-dead Sherlock Holmes managed to escape his brother's custody, kill Smythe, stole and used the device, and is now in Molly Hooper's universe, plotting to get her back under his control - and kill his hated other self._

* * *

Holmes screamed and staggered, but astonishingly managed to keep to his feet despite the force of the blow. With another scream of pure rage he lurched forward, reaching for Mrs. Hudson's throat as she backed away from him, her eyes wide but her mouth set in a firm line, frying pan gripped in both hands, her stance that of an American baseballer ready to hit a grand slam.

Molly scrambled to her feet, head still ringing, desperately searching for anything she could use as a weapon, when the sound of gunfire dropped her back to the floor. When she dared look up, she saw Holmes staggering and clutching his shoulder before turning and hurling himself through the sitting room window, disappearing from view with a crash and a cascade of glass shards. Molly ducked and covered her head, curling in on herself as the adrenalin seemed to flush itself instantly out of her body, leaving her shaky and nauseous in its sudden absence.

"Miss Hooper! Miss Hooper, are you injured?" she heard a voice calling. Fingers grazed her shoulder, but before she could do more than shudder a much more welcome voice and the sound of someone being shoved aside reached her ears.

"Don't touch her, you idiot, can't you tell she's in shock? No wonder my doppelgänger got the drop on your unfortunate compatriot, if this is the level of incompetence Mycroft is surrounding himself with these days!" The sharp voice went silent, then spoke again, much more softly and closer to her. Sherlock must have knelt down; she risked a peek as he murmured, "Molly? Molly, can you hear me? Are you all right?"

"Sherlock!" she cried, clutching his sleeves and staring up into his face. "He was here, he was here, alive, I don't know how, but it was _him_!"

"I know, I saw him," he replied, his voice a soothing rumble. "Mertz and Hendricks are chasing after him but I suspect he'll dodge those two incompetents with ease."

"Go after him," Molly insisted, batting his hands away when he tried to help her to her feet. "You need to stop him, catch him-"

 _Kill him,_ she said with her eyes as she held his gaze.

"No," he said softly as he took her hands in his. "He's already gone, Molly. But he'll come back and when he does, we'll be ready for him this time."

"All right." She finally allowed him to help her to her feet; when her knees started to buckle, he lifted her in his arms and cradled her to his chest, all the while murmuring soft words of comfort and praise. She clung to him and wept as she hadn't in well over a year, her body still shaking in reaction as he carried her to the sofa and sat down carefully with her still in his arms.

"Is Mrs. Hudson...is she…" Molly couldn't seem to manage a full question, but Sherlock understood her.

"She's fine. Aren't you fine, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked in a voice meant to carry.

"Oh, yes, absolutely fine," their landlady responded as she hurried over to join them. "Except for the fact that some lunatic got himself up to look like you, Sherlock, and very nearly-" She bit her lip and gave Molly a significant look. "Please tell me you didn't know this was going to happen?"

"No, I didn't," he replied. "And it wasn't plastic surgery, Mrs. Hudson. It was an old and very unwelcome adversary."

Molly shivered and burrowed her face against his chest as he began tapping away on his mobile. She needed to pull herself together, to stop the rising terror, but she couldn't. Couldn't stop seeing his face, hearing his voice, the impossible made horrifyingly real. He was _dead_ ; she'd _killed_ him, _shot_ him and watched him _fall_ and bleed _out_ , there was no _way_ he could be alive and yet he was, he _was_ , he-

 _No._

 _Dammit, NO._

She wasn't going to let him do this to her, not again. Never again.

She would never let him control anything about her. Especially not her emotions.

"Molly, dear?" Mrs. Hudson's soothing voice was a welcome distraction, helping her focus on the outside world and not the nightmare screaming to life in her mind. She turned her head just enough to see her, the sympathetic expression doing very little to hide the older woman's concern. "Cup of tea? I know I could use one."

"Dennings will get it," Sherlock said. "Since he's otherwise utterly useless. Extra sugar in both, cream in Miss Hooper's. Downstairs, Speedy's will live up to its name or whoever's on the counter will hear from me." When the agent hesitated, he gave him a cold look. "Now. Mycroft's on his way and I'm sure you'd rather I wasn't the one to explain to him how you and your deceased partner fucked things up so royally."

Mrs. Hudson gave him a 'language, Sherlock' look but said nothing. Dennings kept silent as well, just nodded and exited the flat, pulling the door shut behind him.

"There's a man on the landing and two more outside the front door," Sherlock said, holding up his mobile so Molly could see the text he'd received from someone - probably Mycroft. She nodded and squeezed Sherlock tightly, then eased his arms from around her and slid from his lap to the sofa. He gave her a doubtful look; the one she gave in return was meant to show her determination not to let this shatter her. Even if Holmes was impossibly alive and in their world, she wasn't going to have to face him alone; this time she was the one on home turf and he was the one with all the resources marshalled against him.

He was the one who was going to end up a prisoner, probably in some island fortress in the middle of nowhere under the cold, uncaring eye of Britain's shadow government.

Speaking of which… "How long will it take Mycroft to get here? "

"Mycroft will be here within five minutes, John a few minutes after that, with the police and an ambulance arriving no sooner than twenty minutes later."

"And then we have a council of war," Molly finished when he paused.

"Indeed."

 **oOo**

While Sherlock paced and fretted and ignored his cup of tea (dutifully and swiftly delivered by Dennings), Mrs. Hudson sat with Molly. She appreciated her attempts to distract her by chatting of her latest romance and criticizing the tea, but Molly could tell she was bursting with questions. "It's all right," she said softly, laying a hand on the other woman's arm when she fell silent. "You can ask. I mean, it's obvious who he was." She refused to shudder at the memory. "That other Sh...Holmes," she corrected herself.

"The awful man who took you away from us for so long," Mrs. Hudson said sympathetically. "No need to talk about it any more, not when I'm sure there'll be other making you go over every detail. But I did wonder...well, why didn't you scream or call for help?"

Molly could feel Sherlock's attention on her, but kept her gaze level with Mrs. Hudson's. "I suppose it was because I fell back into old, very painfully learned habits. In that...other world...no one would come to help me even if I screamed my head off. Your other self...wasn't very nice," she added.

She'd never spoken to Mrs. Hudson about her ordeal except in the broadest of terms, not wanting to distress her, but after today's events there was no reason not to. Certainly the landlady was far more than the frail little old lady she often presented herself as being!

"You poor dear, what a dreadful time _that man_ put you through," Mrs. Hudson said - Molly would have characterized it as 'comfortingly' except for the vicious way 'that man' was emphasized. "I'm just glad our boys found a way to get you back home - and now that they know _that man_ is here, they'll be sure to chase him down and bring him to justice...of one kind or another," she added with a dark flash in her eyes that spoke volumes to Molly. Neither woman would be put out in the least if such 'justice' involved a great deal of pain and ultimately death for Holmes.

"I'm just glad you heard the crash," Molly continued after a moment. "But I do wish you'd just called the police and stayed safe in your flat. I hate to think what might have happened if Mycroft's men hadn't got here in time."

"Pish, it would have been fine," Mrs. Hudson tutted. "You would have remembered that knife you keep stashed under the mattress - yes," she added with a small smile as Molly stared at her in surprise, " - I know all about it. Can't blame you, and after finally seeing _that man_ for myself I'm surprised it wasn't a machete. Or a Kalashnikov!"

"She won't let me get her one," Sherlock put in, speaking lightly but with no humor in his eyes.

Suddenly desperate for a change in subject, Molly asked, "What about that poor man in the bathroom?" This time she allowed herself to shudder; it was a sympathetic motion, not born of fear. "Will he be taken to Barts, do you want me to autopsy him?" She needed something to do, something other than just huddle on the sofa, something useful. One of the many things _he_ had never allowed her to be when she'd been under his thumb.

Before Sherlock could answer, Dennings knocked and poked his head around the door. "Mr. Holmes," he announced, stepping aside deferentially as Mycroft swept into the room.

"Well, well," he said as he surveyed the damage Holmes had wrought, his gaze ultimately falling on Sherlock. "What sort of mess have you landed in now, brother dear?"


	6. Council of War

_A/N: Apologies for the delay. I now present the aftermath of Holmes' attack and escape after Mrs. H smacked him upside the head with a skillet. Thanks for your lovely reviews, and I hope you enjoy this chapter._

* * *

Surprisingly enough - at least to Molly - it wasn't Sherlock who first responded to Mycroft's provocative statement, but Mrs. Hudson. "You!" she exclaimed, rising to her feet and stepping into his personal space in an unmistakably confrontational manner. "How dare you come into my house saying such things you, you - _reptile_! One of your own men was murdered, Molly was assaulted, and all you can think to do is torment your brother! You should be ashamed, Mycroft Holmes, and you be assured - your mother is going to hear about this!"

He responded with nothing more than a series of rapid blinks, but to Molly's hard-won skills at reading people, it was the equivalent of another man flinching back from Mrs. Hudson's words.

"I beg your pardon, Molly," he said, addressing her rather than the irate landlady. The two of them had never really gotten on very well, and now was hardly the time to try and get them to mend fences. "You appear to be fully recovered from your ordeal, at least physically."

"John will take a look at her when he gets here," Sherlock announced. Before Molly could do more than give him an outraged stare for his highhandedness, he backpedaled. "If she wants, of course. Luckily she and Mrs. Hudson both very handily kept my otherworldly doppelgänger from doing more than minimal damage. This time."

"He was dead," Molly said before Mycroft could respond to his brother's words. "I shot him and he was bleeding out. The only way he could have survived would be if someone gave him immediate medical attention - and I mean, an ambulance would have had to have been there with a full surgical team within minutes of us leaving for him to have survived. So how did he? Does this mean that the other Greg Lestrade didn't destroy the machine after all?"

The questions burst out of her like bullets, her fear and fury mixing with her shame at having been fooled, even for an instant, by Holmes. Sherlock laid a soothing hand on her shoulder and she leaned against him, drawing strength from his presence. "I suspect we'll never learn the answers until we have _him_ in our custody," he replied, snapping his teeth together in a cold smile. He wasn't offering her empty promises, either; she'd see through those in a heartbeat.

No, he was being his coldest, most logical self, and she couldn't fault him for that. She needed Sherlock Holmes the Consulting Detective right now, not her boyfriend or lover. Later she would burrow herself back into his arms, feel his strong heartbeat against her cheek and maybe even cry, but now wasn't the time for comfort.

She was especially grateful for his calm strength a few minutes later, as first John and then the ambulance and police arrived, along with several more unobtrusive men in black suits who spent all their time standing back with their hands folded in front of them - unless, of course, Mycroft so much as twitched an eyebrow their way.

Events were explained to the police exactly as they had happened - more or less. Mrs. Hudson's initial interpretation of events - that some madman had got himself up to look like Sherlock, murdered Mycroft's man, attempted to rape Molly, and had been chased off by herself and the MI5 agents who'd been dispatched as soon as their missing comrade had missed his check-in - became the official story given to NSY.

Much to Lestrade's disgruntlement, after that the police had then been firmly but effectively shut out by Mycroft. "This is a matter of national security, so MI5 will be taking charge," the elder Holmes informed him, laying on the smug officiousness a bit thickly, in Molly's view. Especially considering the fact that the DCI was one of the small inner circle who knew the truth behind her abduction and year-long disappearance.

Sherlock gave her a look that let her know he agreed with her, even as Greg went toe to toe with Mycroft. "Yeah, they've done such a fantastic job so far." He very pointedly did not look at the body being wheeled out of the flat, instead turning to Molly with a sympathetic expression. "You sure you're okay, Molly? D'you want any additional security? Even if we're bein' shut out of the investigation, doesn't mean we can't offer police protection."

"Actually, Lestrade," Sherlock said as he placed a protective arm over her shoulder, "if you wouldn't mind staying once you've sent your men on their way, Molly and I would like to have a word with you."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow; Sherlock gave him a steady look. The older man shrugged and abruptly ordered everyone - his own men included - out of the flat. Mrs. Hudson looked aggravated at his high-handedness, but after a quick hug and kiss on Molly's cheek, she reluctantly made her way down to her own flat.

Mycroft paused before following her. "My PA will bring the file by shortly, Sherlock. In the meantime, do try to keep everyone that belongs here in this world."

"File? What file?" John asked, looking from Sherlock to Molly in confusion.

"The full debriefing from our return," Sherlock replied, still standing with his arm around Molly's shoulder. As if he couldn't bear to be away from her for very long, which might very well be true. "The complete, unexpurgated files. In case there's something in there that we've forgotten or didn't think important at the time."

"Christ, so it's someone from…?" Lestrade jerked a thumb up and over his shoulder, vaguely ceilingward.

"Not just someone," Sherlock said grimly as he settled Molly in his chair - pulled well away from the window and cleared of broken glass - and began pacing around the room. " _Him_."

"Him." John exchanged confused glances with Lestrade as he spoke, but swiftly realized the implications of what Sherlock had just said. Eyes first widening in shock, then narrowing, he said, "Wait, you don't mean - _him_ , him? _Holmes_?"

"But he's dead," Lestrade protested.

"Not as dead as we'd hoped he be," Sherlock said wryly. Knowing very well that his light tone was fooling no one. "Apparently he found a way to come back."

"Great. Fantastic," John muttered, running his hand across his hair. "Just what we needed. You sure you're okay, Molly?" he asked, looking at her with what she recognized as his professional gaze. "I can call Mary, have her come over," he added with a challenging look at Sherlock. "She can help."

Sherlock held up his mobile. "Already texted her." He grinned at John's surprised look. "What, you didn't think I'd want to bring in every potential asset I could to help with this? Especially an ex-spy with a terrifying skill set?"

Greg choked a bit at that, not having been privy to Mary's background before now, but Molly knew John would agree it was pointless to keep secrets under the circumstances. Once he finished sputtering and cursing, of course.

Besides, Mary's secret past wasn't the important part - finding and getting rid of ( _killing_ ) Holmes was.

"We should check out his boltholes," Molly said, looking up at Sherlock as his perambulations brought him back to her side. "Places he would go when he didn't want anyone to find him, even his own people. Except for his bodyguard and me," she added, her eyes hardening. "Moran was the only person Holmes trusted."

"Already on it," Sherlock said, once again holding up his mobile. "When I texted Mary, I sent her a preliminary list so she and Wiggins could start checking them out."

"Why them? Why not some of Mycroft's goons?" John demanded angrily. "Instead you sent my fiancée out after that maniac with only a drugged up computer geek for backup!"

"Ex-spy, terrifying skill set," Sherlock reminded him tetchily. "Give me - or better yet, give _Mary_ \- some credit, for God's sake. She's on a simple recon mission, not seek and destroy." His eyes glittered dangerously. "I'm saving that pleasure for myself and Molly."

John looked back and forth between the two of them in disbelief. "Now I know you've gone mental," he pronounced. "It's bad enough dragging Mary into this, but he's already attacked Molly, you can't put her back into harm's way!"

This time it was Molly who responded, stepping away from Sherlock's sheltering hold and thrusting her face close to John's, her hands tightly fisted by her sides. "That's my decision to make, John. Not yours, not Sherlock's, but _mine_. No one's stuffing me into some government safe-house like some damsel in distress." She raised her chin and met John's gaze steadily. "Holmes made the biggest mistake of his life in coming after me again - in coming to our world. Whatever plans you and Sherlock come up with, I'm part of them, like it or not."

It was obvious that John didn't like it, not at all, but all he did - all he could do - was nod acceptance of Molly's words.

She could tell by the worried looks he kept sending her way as he, Sherlock and Lestrade worked on the details of their next step that he was afraid he was going to regret this decision.

She would never tell him so - but she felt exactly the same.

 **Elsewhere**

 _He made it to the flat he'd commandeered, just long enough to dig out the bullet and clumsily bandage his shoulder. Stuffing the previous occupant's laptop into a messenger bag, Holmes put on clean clothing, including a long black coat similar to his far more expensive Belstaff, and prepared to abandon his bolt hole. With his damnable double aiding them, it wouldn't take the police long to track him this far, and he needed to find a safe place to go to ground while he recovered and revised his plans for taking back what belonged to him._

 _He gnashed his teeth angrily at the thought of Molly's beloved 'Sherlock'; how DARE that undeserving, too-soft version of himself be allowed to touch her, to be with her, take his pleasure of her? No doubt he was even now offering her comfort, praising that bitch Martha Hudson for her actions in driving him away._

 _The old woman would die next. He would enjoy every moment as he beat her death with her own frying pan, stomped in her head, gouged out her eyes…_

 _Envisioning the death of the housekeeper occupied his mind pleasantly as he made his careful way down the street and toward the nearest Tube station. He had other boltholes prepared, but was wary of heading directly toward any one of them. He would make some random transfers, throw them further off the scent while he bent his mind to getting back what belonged to him. That thought drove him as if he actually felt them at his heels._

 _Hah! Chance would be fine thing._

You miscalculated with Molly.

 _He snarled at the sound of his hated older brother's voice echoing in his mind; the vagrant squatting on the pavement outside the Tube station inched warily away from him. That steadied him, reminded him that he was Sherlock Holmes, a man to be feared by everyone he encountered, in this world or his own._

 _He boarded the first northbound train, slumped into a seat and forced himself to contemplate Mycroft's statement. Yes, Molly had proven herself to be far less pliable than anticipated, but it was only a temporary setback. Once he separated her from her pathetic protectors, got her back under his control, she would revert back to the woman he'd trained so beautifully. His plaything, his prize, his exotic conquest from a land so foreign to him and yet so utterly familiar._

 _This was nothing but a minor setback, such as even a man as great as he was sometimes suffered. Once he had Molly back in his possession, everything else would fall into place: he would take over whatever pathetic excuse for an underworld this London boasted, he would kill his enemies, and he would rule as he was always destined to do._

 _But first...Molly._

 _He smiled, confident that he would win the day._


End file.
